


cover you with His pinions

by starr_falling



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Derek Has Issues, GFY, M/M, Past Kate Argent/Derek Hale, Wingfic, sort of
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-19
Updated: 2013-12-19
Packaged: 2018-01-05 03:15:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,937
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1088952
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/starr_falling/pseuds/starr_falling
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stiles smells like feathers and light. Before meeting him Derek didn't even know light <i>had</i> a scent.</p>
            </blockquote>





	cover you with His pinions

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this waaaaay back before season 3 aired, but never posted it as it never felt quite right. It still doesn’t really, but it’s been 3 months since I’ve even looked at it let alone worked on it and frankly, I’m sick of it sitting in my WIP folder. So I’m posting it as is. 
> 
> Title is from [Psalm 91:4](http://www.biblestudytools.com/nas/psalms/91-4.html).

Derek watches avidly as Stiles moves above him, skin flushed, eyes never wavering from his. Distracted by the sight of his beautiful milky skin, the burning intensity of his eyes, the hot hard length splitting him open, he barely notices the way the light and shadows shift around them, nearly fluttering.

* * *

The first time Derek ever met Stiles, he'd hardly paid him any attention. All he could think about was Laura; finding her dead, cut in half. He didn't care about the new wolf let alone his irritating friend. There was no space in his mind, crushed by grief, to care what they were doing there, only that it was a distraction he didn't want.

Still, even as he couldn't think of anything else, even as he sent them away, a part of him couldn't help but catalog their scents just as he did with every person he meet. Scott had smelled like a typical teenage boy, sweat and hormones with a faint trace of medication. The wolf was so new to him that it was barely present in his scent at all, so weak Derek would've missed it if it wasn't so familiar.

But Stiles. There was something wrong with the way he smelled, and it intrigued the small part of Derek that was paying attention. His scent was faint, almost not there. He smelled nothing like any person Derek had ever met before. Like feathers and resin and some strange not-scent that he couldn't place. It was even fainter than his overall scent, more imagined than there, and Derek couldn't figure out what it meant.

It irritated him for ages, this distraction he neither needed nor wanted. But no matter how he tried to ignore it, that small part of his mind went over it obsessively, worrying at it like a loose tooth.

* * *

Derek arches into every thrust, desperate and helpless to do anything but match Stiles’ every move. His eyes roam restlessly over Stiles' form, tracing every beloved line with his eyes; the long graceful neck, the broad shoulders, the narrow, lean chest. He's drawn, fascinated as always, by the freckles and moles scattered across otherwise unblemished skin.

He groans as Stiles grinds against him, fingers digging into his sides. He struggles for control, to keep from piercing Stiles with his claws. As it is, he can see his fingers denting the skin, white at the tips with the strength of his grip. There will be bruises there, he knows. Dark marks in delicate flesh that will remind Stiles for days of this moment.

He’d panicked, the first time he realized that he’d bruised Stiles. Stiles had laughed, pulling him close to whisper into his mouth how much he liked it, all the places he wanted Derek to leave his mark. Derek has no idea what he's done to deserve the beautiful creature over him, inside him, but he can only thank whatever higher power might listen to the prayers of werewolves.

* * *

The second time he'd meet Stiles – really meet him and not just exchanged a few tense words or spied on him as he watched Scott – he was delirious with pain and Wolfsbane poisoning.

He'd tried to focus all his attention on Stiles, to let the distracting boy take his mind off his pain, off his likely death. It was surprisingly easy. There was something about Stiles, something he couldn't quite put his finger on. The faint smell of him, so hard to identify, cut across his own stench of sickness and death this close, trapped in the small space of the Jeep.

Derek couldn't escape it, didn't even try really. It was certainly better than smelling himself. As much as Stiles' complaints irritated him, Derek couldn't blame him. He really did smell _that bad_.

But Stiles' scent was refreshing, pleasant in a way no teenage boy's was meant to be. That close, confined together as they were, the scent was much more intense than that day in the woods. The strongest scent was still that of feathers, which was as confusing as it was intriguing. The scent was much too strong, too central to his smell to be transfer from a pet. Even if somehow it had been from a pet, it wasn't quite like any bird he'd ever come across before.

There was another scent, not as strong, that was harder to identify. Strangely, it reminded Derek of going to midnight mass on Christmas Eve, something he hadn't done since his family died. It was rich and earthy, but somehow spicier, _wilder_ , than the smoke that had lazily curled through the small church his family had attended for generations. It confused him, bringing back fond memories he had long thought buried, even as it stirred baser longings.

He'd pushed those feelings away. Stiles was a child, barely sixteen, and Derek refused to let himself even idly consider it. He wouldn't be the one to sully his innocence, wouldn't let himself ruin Stiles the way he'd ruined himself. Stiles deserved better than the burned and blackened husk Kate had left behind.

He had forcefully pulled his mind away from such thoughts. Focused on that elusive scent, the not-scent that tickled at his nose and caught in the back of his throat. It was strange, unlike anything he'd ever scented before, let alone something he'd picked up from a person. It wasn't sweat, or hormones, or any number of scents that could be transferred, that could linger, from things Stiles had eaten, or brushed against or people he spent time with.

It was soothing and warm, and made him feel welcome and somehow lighter. Later, after Scott had finally, _finally_ , come through. When the pain and sickness were gone, when all that was left was an ache in his muscles that would soon fade into memory. He had stared at Stiles, limned by the low light of the examination room, entranced at the way it had shone on his shorn hair, almost creating a halo around his head.

It was light, he decided. The smell, elusive and strange and not quite human, almost otherworldly, was what light would smell like, if it had a scent.

* * *

Stiles moans above him, and Derek needs to taste it. Wants to lick the flavor of his pleasure from his mouth until there's nothing left but _Derek_. He traces his fingers up Stiles' sides, curving around his back, cupping his shoulder blades.

A light pressure and Stiles is curving down, 'til they're chest to chest. Derek swallows the moans the new position wrings from Stiles. Their movements become frantic, grinding against each other. Derek loses himself in the heat of Stiles' mouth. In the way his body accepts Stiles so easily, so greedily. In the slick rub of Stiles' cock over his prostate with every thrust. In the way Stiles' muscles shift under his fingers as he runs his hands up and down his back, digging into all the tender spots.

It's easy to ignore the small, quiet part of his mind that insists the shifts in muscle don't – quite – match Stiles' movements.

* * *

The first time they'd had sex was after they had saved each other again. He'd long since lost count of the number of times Stiles had saved him, or he Stiles. Stiles still insisted he was 'winning.' All he could remember was the way Stiles had looked at him, frantic and angry and some other, overwhelming emotion Derek couldn't understand, wouldn't let himself understand.

He didn't know who moved first, only remembered hot and wet and _Stiles_. The kiss was brutal, teeth clacking, the taste of blood sharp and oddly sweet. He'd pulled impatiently at Stiles' shirts, growled in frustration at the extra time it took to remove the multiple barriers between him and skin. Stiles never did forgive him for ripping his favorite Batman shirt.

The feel of those long, clever fingers under his shirt, against the sensitive skin at the small of his back, made his breath catch. His chest tightened, overcome, and for a moment it felt like he was drowning again. He forced himself to ease his grip, to let go long enough for Stiles to pull his shirt up and off. The press of their chests threatened to undo all his control.

He captured Stiles' mouth again, needing his taste more than air. He pressed Stiles back, moving him until he was trapped between Derek and the wall. Stiles wrenched his mouth away from him, panting. Derek nipped at his jaw, his neck, bit down on his Adam's apple. Stiles swore at that, babbled between pants; encouragement, orders, nonsense sounds of pleasure.

Derek worried at the join of neck and shoulder as Stiles scrabbled at his back, nails digging in, delicious pricks of pain. He ran his hands down Stiles' sides, traced the flesh just above his jeans. The ragged moan that earned him only spurred him on. He flicked open the button, easing the zipper down slowly.

Stiles made his opinion of _that_ painfully clear. Derek laughed, slipping his hand inside Stiles’ boxers. The strangled moan couldn't distract him from the weight and heat of the flesh in his hand. He pulled Stiles' cock out, fascinated, traced a thumb over the slick red head.

He'd lost himself in the feel, the taste, the smell, of this strange and wonderful boy. Derek claimed his mouth again, rutting against Stiles' thigh as he stripped his cock. It was quick and rough, denim creating an almost painful friction against his dick. Stiles' hips stuttered, short sharp thrusts, cock jerking in his hand. It was perfect; the feel of him pulsing, the wet splash of come, the way the bitter smell only intensified Stiles' normal scent.

Derek came in his pants like a teenager, overwhelmed by everything that was Stiles. They panted against each others' mouths, too wrecked to keep kissing. Derek lay his head against Stiles' shoulder, unable to resist raising his fingers to his mouth. Not even the truly filthy sound Stiles made could’ve distracted him from the taste. Salty and bitter, with that elusive scent of light somehow underlying it all.

He'd absently listened to Stiles babbling in between panting breaths as he'd licked his fingers clean. The words barely penetrated his languid pleasure. But he caught enough to realize - to remember. Stiles was still only seventeen, had never been touched by another's hand before. Stiles was still innocent and pure in a way Derek could no longer remember being, and Derek had sworn not to mar him, not to dirty him with himself.

Even as his body shivered with the aftershocks, he could feel the sick twist of guilt. He'd failed, had let his baser desires overcome his better sense. But it wouldn't happen again. He silently swore to Stiles, to himself, that it would _never_ happen again.

But it did. Again and again and again. 'Til he lost count, 'til the guilt was burned away by heat and pleasure and light.

* * *

Stiles writhes in his grip, undulating in the most delicious way. It's hot and perfect and _not enough_. Derek growls, rolling them over in one quick move. He slams down on Stiles' cock, needing him deeper, needing Stiles as far inside him as he can get, as close to being one with him as possible.

Stiles laughs around a moan, teasing Derek breathlessly about his control issues. Derek doesn't bother to correct him, silencing him with a kiss instead. It's his turn to groan, whatever control he might have snaps as Stiles sucks on his tongue. His hips snap down, riding Stiles hard enough Derek has to brace himself against the headboard to keep his balance.

Part of Derek still feels guilty, worries that he's taking advantage, that someday he'll break Stiles the way he was broken. But it's easy to ignore it now, while Stiles is under him, meeting him at every point, holding back nothing and demanding everything. Stiles has long since proven he's far stronger than Derek is, ever was, can ever hope to be. Derek cannot break Stiles, not the way Stiles can break him. There's so little left of Derek that is whole, but it belongs to Stiles, to do with as he pleases; to have, to keep, to break, to heal.

He is Stiles', through and through, and he has never felt safer.

* * *

Derek wasn't there, the first time Stiles did magic. He wasn't there, when Stiles completed the circle of mountain ash, when he created a barrier to cage the supernatural. But Derek had felt it the moment it happened. The snap of it had almost been audible, the way it cut him off from his betas, trapped outside while they were caught inside.

It had taken more effort than he would ever admit not to panic, not to demand that Stiles remove it immediately. He could still feel them, but it was distant, muted. That's why he hadn't felt – hadn't known – Scott was in trouble, afraid and in pain, until he howled.

He was so worried, so focused on getting to Scott that he'd almost missed it. The way Stiles' scent had intensified, sharp and so strong it was the only thing he could smell for a moment. The scent of light, the not-smell that he only ever scented on Stiles. As he broke the barrier, Stiles was all he could smell, all he could hear. The sound of his heartbeat rushed through Derek, and on the edges, almost drowned out, the sound of wings; of rustling pinions, as if a flock of birds had just taken flight.

Derek didn't understand it, couldn't take the time to. As much as he wanted to understand it, to understand him, he didn't have the time. Scott had needed him, and his own desires took a backseat to that. He did spare one brief look at Isaac and Erica, but their worried looks never changed. There was no curiosity or confusion. He'd wondered how they could miss it, when it was all he could feel, but they were still new to this life, still growing into their abilities.

Derek firmly banished it from his mind, made himself focus on Scott. But later, later he wondered. Wondered what it meant, the sound of wings. What exactly that scent was. He thought it must be related to Stiles' magic. It was the only time he ever heard the wings, and the scent was always strongest then, barely present otherwise. But if it was magic, why didn't it ever happen around Deaton? He'd never actually been present when Deaton did magic, he had no way of knowing if there was ever the sound of wings. But that scent, the not-there scent of light was _truly_ not there with Deaton. He smelled of animals, of herbs and wood, and – underneath everything else – that unpleasant medical scent carried by anyone that spent time in a hospital. Animal or human, it didn't matter, the scent was the same; sickness and medicine, bleach and death.

But if it wasn't magic, not some scent carried by everyone who could will the world to change, then what was it? Derek tried to ignore it, to push the matter out of his mind, but he couldn't. He almost asked once what Deaton knew, what he suspected, but in the end he couldn't bring himself to. He couldn't bring himself to trust Deaton, not completely. He wasn't sure if he was more worried that Deaton would lie or tell the truth.

It bothered him though, the way Deaton looked at Stiles sometimes, when he thought no one was looking. Deaton treated Stiles no differently than anyone else, beyond teaching him to utilize his magic. But. The way he looked at Stiles sometimes, with awe almost, was deeply unsettling. Deaton was a hard man to read, and Derek didn't understand him well enough to parse what it meant that he looked like that. That he sometimes looked at Stiles like he was the most amazing and precious thing Deaton had ever seen.

It made him uncomfortable, like he'd seen the most private and personal part of Deaton. It made him angry, both the human and the wolf possessive of Stiles in a way that frightened him. He wanted answers and he suspected Deaton had them, but he wouldn't ask for them. Wanted nothing more than to hurt him, rip him, kill him, for daring to look at what was _his_ like he had some stake in him, some claim on him.

* * *

Derek is so close, balls drawn up, every muscle tense in anticipation of release. He can feel himself shifting, losing that last bit of control. His nails lengthen into claws, digging into the wood of the headboard. He tries to pull away as his fangs lengthen, worried about hurting Stiles. But Stiles doesn't let him, twists long fingers through his hair, holds his head in place. He could break the hold easily, but doesn't. Lets Stiles hold him, lick into his mouth, trace his fangs with his tongue. Moans when he deliberately – it _has_ to be deliberate – drags his tongue across one tip, flooding Derek's mouth with the sweet, salty taste of _Stiles_.

His climax slams into him, overtaking him in a rush. His hips stutter, losing all rhythm as he comes between them. He barely has the presence of mind not to bite down, to chase after the taste he has become addicted to. Stiles fucks him through his climax, frantic and graceless. Derek watches him through slitted eyes, mesmerized by the way he bites his lip, the way his eyelashes flutter, the way he groans, deep and filthy, as he comes. Derek rumbles, eyes closing in pleasure as he's filled with wet heat.

He doesn't move, savors this moment, engraves this feeling so deeply in his memories he'll never forget it. Derek finally pries his eyes open when Stiles sighs, a sound so full of satisfaction and contentment that he has to see it. He needs to look at his beautiful face, open in a way it never is. It's humbling, to know that Stiles, that anyone, could trust _Derek_ so completely, that they could be so open and unguarded. He's certain he doesn't deserve such trust but he isn't strong enough to protect Stiles from himself.

* * *

He'd found a feather once. Or rather Stiles had. It was several months into this, thing, whatever it might be. They were lying together, basking in the simple pleasure of skin against skin. It was the first time Stiles had ever stayed after the sweat dried. The first time they'd ever had the time really. There was no disaster, no life threatening event to rush off to. It was the first time they hadn't come together because of adrenaline and desperation.

It was slow and sweet and just because. There wasn't any reason for it, other than they'd both wanted, and they couldn't think of why they shouldn't. It'd felt different, new almost, like it was their first time, that everything before that didn't count, not really. It frightened Derek, in that small part of his mind that didn't believe that good things could happen to him. That part used to be so much larger, was nearly all he was, before Stiles. He thought he should be worried about that, that Stiles had such power over him, but he felt too good to think too much on it.

Stiles was plastered to his side, sweaty and breathless, so warm and comfortable. Derek knew he should get up, clean up before they got stuck together, but he couldn't bring himself to care enough to bother. He was unsure how long they lay like that, only that when Stiles finally moved, finally shifted away, it wasn't long enough. It took more willpower than he would ever admit not to clutch him, not to force him to stay.

But Stiles moved away, scrunching his face up in a way that was somehow both comical and adorable, as their skin peeled apart. He laughed, couldn't help it; couldn't remember the last time it had happened. Judging from the look of shock on Stiles' face, it was before they'd met. Stiles had shaken his head, muttering to himself lowly enough that Derek pretended he hadn't heard. But he did, and he would never forget the fondness in Stiles' voice as he'd climbed out of the bed.

Derek watched, entranced by the play of muscles even as he dreaded Stiles leaving. But he didn't get dressed merely stumbled, still naked, into the bathroom. The sound of water running was quickly followed by Stiles' return. He was clean, but still smelled like Derek and sex. He threw a wet washcloth on Derek's stomach as he crawled back into bed. Derek shivered at the cold water on his heated skin.

He wiped himself mechanically, hating to clean off the evidence of what they'd done, only the knowledge that the scent would linger allowed him to do so. He tossed the cloth in the direction of the bathroom when he was done, before turning back to Stiles.

He was holding a feather as long as his forearm. Derek asked where he'd gotten it. Stiles said he’d found it in the sheets, asked where it'd come from. Derek didn't answer, only shrugged. He had no idea where it'd come from, only that it hadn't been in his bed before.

Stiles ran his fingers along the edges, first ruffling then smoothing the barbs. It was shaded brown, a light nearly amber color close to the shaft, growing darker until it was a rich chocolate brown at the tip. Stiles grinned wickedly before shifting so he could drag the feather down Derek's torso. He sucked in a breath at the tickle, faint and almost not there.

Stiles dragged it back up, detouring to circle first one nipple, then the other. Derek groaned, cock twitching against his thigh. The scent of Stiles' arousal was sharp. Derek grinned wolfishly at him as he pounced. Derek forgot all about the feather, more interested in seeing if he could make Stiles squeak like that again.

Later - much later - after Stiles had finally had to leave, he found the feather on the floor. He studied it but couldn't figure out where it had come from, how it had gotten into his bed. The coloring was strange, unlike any bird he was familiar with, larger than anything he'd ever found in the Preserve.

He brought it to his nose, inhaled deeply. It smelled like a feather and resin and light. It smelled like _Stiles_.

Derek kept it – bought a silk scarf for the sole purpose of wrapping it up – in a box in his trunk, where he kept all he had left of Laura. A shirt she had left in the Camaro, a necklace their mother had given her for her sixteenth birthday, a book she never finished. Small things, unimportant things. It hurt, to know there was so little left of someone who'd been his whole world for so long. It terrified him to think that one day, this feather might be all he had left of Stiles.

* * *

He tries to pull away, to relieve Stiles of his weight, but Stiles' arms tighten around him. Derek sighs but relents, lowers himself back down on top of Stiles. He listens to the hum, more felt than heard, that Stiles lets out. He knows he can't stay here long, he weighs too much for this position to be comfortable for Stiles.

But he’ll stay. As long as Stiles wants him here, he’ll stay.


End file.
